


In the Mud and Rain

by ScriptrixDraconum



Series: Steel and Roses [13]
Category: Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Alternate Canon, Desperation, F/M, First Time, Kissing in the Rain, Loss of Virginity, Mildly Dubious Consent, Missionary Position, Mud, Orgasm Denial, Rain, Regret, Sex, Sexual Content, Virginity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-26
Updated: 2015-03-26
Packaged: 2018-03-19 17:56:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,062
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3619023
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ScriptrixDraconum/pseuds/ScriptrixDraconum
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Esmé Cousland opens a door passed which there is no return.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In the Mud and Rain

**Author's Note:**

> I separated this from the previous series entry.

It was raining. I was chilled, but didn’t care. I needed the wash. Even after bathing in the river outside of our new camp, I felt unclean. Filthy. Tainted. I sat naked on a rounded, mossy rock, knees tucked under my chin, letting the rain wash away the memories.

Gilmore. My lovely Gilmore. He and seventeen other men and women had been infected, and had to be killed. Killed. I killed him, my Gilmore. My dagger severed his spinal cord. Cut into his neck from which spilled black blood, dug into the muscles, found the space between vertebrae, and sliced. My dagger did that. Mine.

I killed him.

The boy I knew since we were toddlers, the man I loved since we first kissed in a spring meadow, he was dead.

I killed him.

“The darkspawn killed him,” Alistair had assured me as I was ushered forward with his aid, away from the battlefield, away from Gilmore’s corpse.

When we had reached a suitable camping place, I was left to grieve on my own, eventually drifting away to this secluded spot by the river. I had since shed my armor somewhere, with underarmor and smallclothes following. The only thing I wore was the necklace Gilmore gave me five years ago. I never took it off, not once. It was as good as tattooed onto my neck.

I gripped the gold chain, and my tears escalated into uninhibited sobs. Alistair didn’t know this was Gilmore’s gift to me, his promise to marry me one day. My betrothed.

I killed him.

“Esmé?” called a concerned voice from the brush behind me. I did not turn. I knew the voice belonged to Alistair. “Leliana said you had gone for a bath, but—come on, you’ll make yourself sick, sitting in the cold rain like this.”

I jumped at the touch of Alistair’s fingers to my shoulder. I turned, peering up at the man, finding him stripped down to just his lower underarmor, likely to avoid having everything be drenched by the downpour.

There was not much light by the river. The campfire only signaled from a distance, and I didn’t have a lantern. Alistair did, however, and he set it down behind me before crouching to meet my height. To his credit, his gaze never left my face.

“Come on,” he pleaded, flattening his palm against my bare back. “Wynne made an amazing stew.”

I wasn’t thinking straight – that much was obvious. Between grief and tears, between frustration and seeing Alistair drenched and half-naked….

I kissed him.

When I pulled him down further by wrapping my arms around his shoulders, Alistair’s knees fell to the mud and moss. I spun on the slippery rock, wrapping my strong legs around Alistair’s waist before he could escape. He grunted, perhaps in protest, but returned my kiss, mouth warm and inviting.

I leared back against the rock and pulled Alistair with me. His weight pressing down on me was a glorious, long-missed sensation. A strong hand swept over my loose, wet hair, gripping and pulling my head back ever so gently. His tongue flicked over mine, testing. I ground my hips against the man’s readily tenting leggings, desperate to feel him inside me.

His hand smoothed its way over slick flesh, gaining purchase on a breast. I moaned, and pressed my fingertips into Alistair’s taught shoulders.

“Esmé,” he whispered after breaking the kiss for a breath.

“Alistair,” I responded, begging. “Please….”

“Esmé….” His voice quivered. He was unsure.

I sobbed, and shook my head.

I kissed him.

As quickly as they could, my fingers unknotted the thong that held up his hide underarmor, immediately thereafter untucking his loincloth. The garments fell to the ground, left to the mud and rain.

I pulled Alistair to me again, forcing his body to crash against mine, his erection pressed between our bellies. Our kiss continued, increasing in desperation. My moans escalated into cries, though muted against his lips. I reached down to grasp his readied shaft as I slid on the rock, shifting myself into position underneath him. I felt the head of his cock press against my sex, and with my heels pushing against his buttocks, he entered me.

His lips vibrated against mine before he broke the kiss, needing the full vocal release a closed mouth wouldn’t allow. Either instinct or my heels told Alistair to pull back, thrust again, and repeat. He moved easily inside me, a credit to my previously mounting arousal. With every push, the man grunted, not caring how loud his pleasure sounds were.

For the first time in months, I felt complete. This felt right, Alistair’s body above me, joining with mine. This was not just grief driving me to comfort myself with Alistair.

I loved him.

His thrusts became deeper, and I cried out louder than I had intended. His kissed me again, muffling the noise. My hands caressed the solid curves of Alistair’s back. His hands cupped my face, and then one smoothed my hair. I could feel the tension in my sex building. So close. So close. I ripped my mouth away from his, needing air.

“I love you,” I mewled against his ear, crying out in sync with his thrusts. I began to cry again, not from grief, but from craving an eternity of  _this_.

Too soon, it was over.

The man above me shuddered, and loud, whimpering cries replaced moans. He thrust again and again, forceful and deliberate. He had come. I had not.

Alistair stilled his body flush against me. He was panting, and his fingers clung to my flesh. The only sounds filling the silence were our breathing, and the steady, driving rain.

He stood, stumbling to his feet. He clenched and unclenched his fists as he stared down at me, blinking away invading raindrops.

“Alistair,” I crooned, reaching out to him, needing him to return to me, to help me finish.

He backed away.

“Alistair?” I sat up on the rock, lowering my hands to brace myself against its mossy surface.

Without a word, Alistair gathered his muddied loincloth and underarmor leggings. He crouched down by the rushing river, letting the water wash the clothes.

“We can see to that later, Alistair. Come,” I beckoned, but the man didn’t even look at me.

Once satisfied his clothes were cleaned, he stomped away, heading back to camp.


End file.
